Tune in today to see if she can … plow through Piloxing.
So, Piloxing® is hard.
While my motions say otherwise, I am learning so much about myself through these classes. Turns out, I like to hit shit. Who knew? Well, I like to swing at the air and pretend that I’m hitting shit. It’s not like a hidden rage thing, it’s more like … OK, so I work an 8-5, I have three children, my husband and I can sing every word of Love is an Open Door, and guys, I like jorts. Not like cutoffs, or those cool, high-waisted Coachella girl ones. I’m talkin’ Bermudas, baby. I love ‘em. I do. So, my point is, when do I get to be a badass?
Piloxing has more punching than it’s butt-kicking cousin, Turbo Kick®, which, as I already covered, makes me a big fan. While it still requires coordination, it doesn’t have the rapid turnover sequences. It has “blocks”. Blocks are my buddy because they give me time to figure out what the frick is going on before we’re on to the next move. And I don’t know if it was the humidity hangover from the afternoon thunderstorm or the feistier-than-appearances-would-suggest instructor, but mama was sweatin’ like Britney without a background track. I could actually feel the beer and s’mores from the past 4 days liquefy and be exorcised from my system.
But for every high there is a low and with Piloxing, it’s the gloves and balance. Before the class started (Why do I always have to be so damn prompt? Why can’t I just straggle in during warmup like all the cool gym girls?), the instructor gave me a quick overview and offered a flash of her colorful gloves. This handwear, she explained, offers a light, added weight to optimize your upper body efforts and increase results. And, oh, they sell them. Of course they do. Gosh dang it. Just like the girl with the rowing shoes … or the people with the special clip-in spinning shoes … or yoga mats with built-in cooling pockets (made it up) … there’s always something, isn’t there? But as I hooked and jabbed and punched, I realized my jort-free badass self wanted the stinkin’ gloves.
The “pil” part of the class is a healthy dose of pilates core work, presented on this night in a block of balancing moves. So, the funniest thing happened. It turns out somewhere between my first pregnancy and a 6 year old coming in to go potty while I’m trying to take a hot bath, I lost the ability to stand on one foot. Truth be told, it didn’t come as a shock. I’ve been the girl whose tree pose appears to be wavering in a blustery breeze for months now. The other gals had it and I was the flailing distraction in the corner of their eyes. Sorry about that, ladies.
Definitely hitting this one up again (pun intended). The only sign I needed was when Still Not a Player by Big Pun came on as I turned onto my suburban street. And hell yes I turned that shit up!
Until next time …